


A Good Last Day

by VS_Brewster



Series: The Pearl [5]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Lemon, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VS_Brewster/pseuds/VS_Brewster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta and Katniss' last day before entering the Quarter Quell arena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Last Day

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters and situations belong to Suzanne Collins. I make no money from this.

_I just want to spend every moment of the rest of my life with you._

Never mind that my life will be painfully short. Never mind that it will undoubtedly end in bloodshed and murder. Katniss has taken my words to heart, has barely left my sight since I said it. Is it too much to hope that she is thinking the same thing? Or is this her way of granting of my last pitiful wish?

I banish the last thought from my mind. There is something strong about Katniss that makes me doubt she knows how to pity.

That first night together we sleep, as I suspect we have not slept since the Victory Tour. Peaceful, unbroken sleep. For just one night, there were no nightmares. Nor did I jolt awake with the unshakable feeling that something horrible is about to happen. We wrapped around each other, limbs entwining, breath mingling. Feebly, I try to keep my eyes open to watch her – _I just want to spend every moment of the rest of my life with you_ – but we are so warm and safe-feeling that sleep is a relief.

So when Katniss falls asleep with her head in my lap for an hour or two on the roof, I am sure to take my chance while I can. I have been sketching her throughout our picnic. Quick lines capturing fleeting moments, or details I want to pick out. The way she tilts her head, the strange half-smile when something funny has entered her head but she doesn't want to tell me. I try to draw everything that I love about her and, of course, fail miserably.

As her breath evens out and her head grows heavy in my lap, I put down my pencil and pad. Strands of dark hair have escaped her braid and curve across her forehead. Her eyebrows have been unnaturally shaped by her stylists. I try to recall the way they should be: a little fuller, a little longer. Not a huge difference, and it makes no odds to me, but I like spotting the changes the Capitol makes. I like knowing I remember her the way she is at home.

Her nose is long and straight. Her skin is the sun-kissed olive of a District Twelve girl with the luxury of spending her days in the sun, and there are a sprinkling of light freckles across her nose. Her lips are thin. Only I know how soft they are – at least I think only I know. And her chin is slightly pointed. I try to think of girls my brothers call pretty. Katniss is like none of them. She is their superior in every respect. From the strength in her jaw, to the fragility in the tiny creases of her eyes. There is no one who can compare to her.

The scar from the Games still stands out, pale and brutal above her right eyebrow. The body buff made it disappear for a few months, and the most recent round of cosmetics has made it almost invisible. But I see it. Half an inch long, a thin white line of scar tissue. How many scars, I wonder, litter her body. I know about mine, I've counted them each time I dry off after a bath. But we were always in the dark on the train. I never had the chance to catalogue her body, to count her imperfections and note the ways in which they made her more perfect.

My hand travels down her face, thumb brushing over her lips. They part ever so slightly at my touch, almost inviting. Our faces are close, and I realise I have been leaning in to her as I study her face. It only takes another inch before my lips are gently brushing hers.

She doesn't stir and a part of me is disappointed.

As I straighten, my body makes it clear just how much I had hoped she would wake up. I sigh, unable to adjust myself with her head on my lap. It occurs to me that this is how the whole mess started out. But I don't think I'll end up so satisfied here, on the roof, as we prepare to go to our deaths.

My death, I correct myself. Katniss will win. She has to.

Katniss mumbles, her eyelids fluttering as she begins to take in the world around her once more and separate it from the dreamland she has just left. I can feel my face flushing. My mind is torn between hoping she doesn't notice the hardness in my lap, and hoping she does. My body responds to her closeness and movement, my erection throbbing its demands for contact in a way that is difficult to ignore.

Her dark eyes glance up at me. "I didn't think you'd want to miss it," I say quickly, hoping I sound convincing. I nod my head at the sky before us, which has turned the most astounding shade of burnt orange.

"Thanks," she says, smiling that same strange half smile. As she sits up I quickly adjust myself, forcing my mind back to enjoying these moments, as I had promised her and myself I would.

The interviews are a tiny marvel all of their own. I don't know when the idea came to me, there were so many small moments that rolled into one huge movement. It might have been when I realised the tide of popular opinion was turning in our favour. Or possibly when Seeder ruminates on President Snow's power, whether he couldn't overthrow the old rules and abolish this strange new turn for the Quell. Perhaps even when Katniss' beautiful dress – and I am not so calculating that I haven't noticed she looks beautiful in it – bursts into flames, and leaves her a mockingjay in the embers. However the idea came to fruition, the results are precisely what I hoped and expected. As we, the victors being sent to die, stand hand in hand before the people who are being told they want this, we watch all hell break loose.

We scramble from the stage. The victor-tributes scatter to their waiting cars, all carefully planned schedules thrown out the window. Katniss and I stay together. She is gripping my hand now, as she did when we first rode together in chariot in cloaks of fire. Her eyes are wide as they dart back and fore. I can't tell if she's looking for something or just trying to take it all in, make sense of what has happened.

When we get to the tower and into the lift, we seem to be the only ones who have returned. I worry for a moment that we – that I – have gone too far, that Haymitch or Effie or the other tributes have been detained and they will soon be coming for us. I dismiss the paranoid thought swiftly. Nothing would be more likely to cause an out and out rebellion from the Capitol's own citizens. They will be trying their hardest to return everything to normal, keep events on track as much as possible.

Katniss bundles me into the elevator, and the floor falls away from the glass bottom as we shoot up to the twelfth level. As Katniss drags me into the hallway it registers that this will be our last night before the arena. I stop, and Katniss' arm jerks against the dead weight. She looks back at me in confusion, but before she can say anything the elevator doors open again. Katniss is pushing in front of me, holding me behind her body to shield me.

But it is only Haymitch stepping forward from the elevator's glass interior.

Farewells are exchanged. I stumble through them numbly. And before I know it, Haymitch is gone again, and Katniss is dragging me down the hall to the door of her bedroom. I stutter something about needing a shower – which is true, but my mind is on the rooftop and a hope of granting myself some relief before spending a sleepless night wrapped around Katniss' body.

"Shower in my room," she hisses. Oh, yes. No route to embarrassment there.

As the door closes behind us I hear a soft but unmistakable click: the sound of a lock's tumbler falling into place. Of course, this is why Katniss would not let me go. And I wonder whether the same thing happened last year, if she had tried to get out again but had found the door locked.

"There are towels in the bathroom. I think the showers work the same way, don't they?" She's looking distractedly down at her dress, the long sleeves trailing to the floor, her slender body coated in inky black feathers.

I turn and poke my head into the bathroom, "Looks the same to me." Looking over my shoulder, I see she is struggling with her dress. "Is there a zipper?"

She looks befuddled for a moment, before realising I'm trying to help her. "I think so. There's something back there holding it together."

Katniss comes closer, and I'm grateful. My left leg is starting to ache below the knee, telling me it's time for bed and a rest. The prosthetic rubs a little with each step. It's only a dull pain, but I'm tired and grateful for a bit of help. My hands run over her back. The softness of the feathers is so like her hair, so like her naked skin. A natural sensation, like touching something wild and beautiful. All I have done is run my fingertips down her back, tracing the inward curve of her body, and the slight swell of her hips, and I can already feel a tightening in my groin. This girl will be the death of me, I think, before realising how morbidly true that sounds.

"Any luck?" she murmurs. I'm startled, almost forgetting I have a purpose back here. My fingers latch on to the small hidden tab of a zip, and I tug it slowly down, careful not to catch any of the feathers. The gown has served its purpose, but it would be a crime to ruin it. I have one last vision of her, elegant and refined and barely herself, the tiny downy feathers smoothing over the contours of her body, before she sheds this second skin and is left all herself. A simple pair of white panties, and her hair pinned and braided up. Despite feeding ourselves up for the occasion, her shoulder blades stick out, and her elbows are a little bony. She has rounded into a woman in the last year, though. Her hips flare slightly, but she will always have a slim petite frame. Katniss glances over her shoulder at me. She does not cover herself modestly as I would have expected, but she is clearly uncomfortable with me watching her.

"Sorry," I mutter, and retreat to the bathroom for my shower.

I kick the door shut behind me, stripping off my shirt and punching buttons to get the shower to work. I remove my pants, and ease into the shower. Paying no heed to my half-hard cock is easier than I expected, and my knee is burning enough to overtake the ache in my balls from too many ignored erections in one day. I soap and rinse, removing the makeup that's only subtle to the cameras. It makes my face too strange. Tonight is not for soaking – I want to get into bed too badly. I shut off the shower and ease out of the cubicle, picking up a towel and scrubbing it over my face and hair before wrapping it around my waist.

The cool air from the bedroom hits me as I leave the bathroom, triggering a shiver. Katniss is already in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, her dark eyes watching me. There are no blushes. Nor does she try to hide her interest. Her eyes – I can almost feel the path of her gaze – travel over my bare chest, and down. I feel a stab of anxiety when they pause on my prosthetic.

Well. It's a part of me now. No point in dancing around it.

I sit on the bed beside her. It's always been dark when I've done this before, or Katniss has been three quarters asleep. I've never done it under her watchful eye. My fingers loosen straps and flick the switch which connects the limb's wires and chips to my own nervous system, allowing it to be intelligent enough that I barely limp and can run with ease. I push myself back, leaving this artificial part of me stood beside the bed.

I'm pretty sure I'm not blushing, but I can feel the tips of my ears are hot when I glance back at Katniss and see that she has been watching every movement. There is a pragmatic voice inside my head, telling me that this was not my fault, that it's nothing to be ashamed of. My petulant pride retaliates that no one, especially not a woman as strong as Katniss, would be anything but repelled by what they've just seen.

Her fingers break into this internal debate, as she gently runs her hand below my knee, touching the shiny scar tissue where my leg ends. "You're sore," she says.

"A bit. I've got the latest technology, apparently, but it's still not a part of me. It just rubs when I've had a long day."

"Does anything help?" Her hand curls around the inside of my knee. Her thumb is brushing higher. I vainly hope that this is not going to be my third banished erection of the day. _She has no idea. The effect she has._ Truer words were never spoken.

"Sleep helps." I move back onto the pillows, pulling her onto my chest. "Come on, we should sleep."

She is still running her hand so gently over my sore sensitised skin. Despite myself I have to admit it does feel good. I let out a long sigh, my eyes closing of their own accord.

"Peeta," she murmurs. When I open my eyes, her face is right there in front of me, her eyes sad again. She leans in and kisses me. It's slow and bittersweet. She kisses me as she did in the cave, with tentative laps of her tongue, and soft throaty barely-there sounds blown into me with each exhale. "I don't want to sleep." The words are spoken against my lips, so I feel them more than I hear them.

"What do you want?" It registers for the first time that she is naked. My hand skims up her bare arm, luxuriating in the softness of her skin, and over her shoulder my fingers map every bump of bone. I can see her face – another novelty after weeks in the darkened carriage of a train – and I can see the desire and sadness mixed strangely in her features.

She draws breath, and expels it. Her fingers play over my chest, like she is finger painting with the morphlings again. "I want you … to touch me the way you want to touch me. Like you love me."

I do love you, my head screams, but there is no way to convince her. No way without making her feel guilty. No way to make her understand that my loving her is really all that matters, that she could go a hundred years without reciprocating, without changing a thing about herself, and I would love her just the same.

But more than anything, her words are a release on my self-control. Not over the reactions of my body – when she looks at me a certain way or a particular thought flashes through my head, I'm going to get an erection whether I like it or not – but in the way I censor my actions towards her. I allow myself to properly embrace her. I pull her close, both hands flattening, palms smoothing over her back. I enjoy her heat against me, her small body bundled in close to mine. It is a treat, not worrying about scaring her off or pushing me away. We fit together so perfectly, her petite frame enclosed by my arms, her legs weaved between mine.

I shift onto my side, and she even smiles as she acquiesces something of her control, lying back on the pillows so untidy tendrils of her hair fan around her face. They are a black corona, a dark dangerous mirror image of the sun. I kiss her face, her brow and cheeks, her lips, as I did while she was sleeping. But now she is awake, and I see how she enjoys it. She is feline, eyes closed and shifting into me, encouraging my kisses. Then I dip lower into unknown territory. I am overwhelmed by my freedom, the ability to covet any part of her when I love every part so strongly. Her throat, where I first chastely kiss, then lathe my tongue. Her skin is salty-sweet, and she smells of almonds. Sighing beneath her ear grants a shiver in response, and her hand flexes around my arm. Daring, I nip at her clavicle, and kiss it quickly. Still she doesn't pull away. I'm giddy drunk on her, on the abundance of her. I'm trying to remember every moment, every touch and feel and taste, knowing that I will never be able to capture this moment but must hold it as something precious in my memory.

When I scoot lower on the bed, still holding myself carefully over her, and my kisses drop down to her breasts she makes her first noise. And then there is something entirely new I must try to index in my memory. All those nights with only one hard-won sound of pleasure, and now there is humming and sighing and whimpering. Her fingers rake through my hair, buried deep in the blonde curls. But, like me, she does not guide me. She holds on, as though her world is rocking and she needs me to keep her steady as my tongue flickers out over a puckered nipple before I suck it between my lips.

"Peeta!" she mewls, and I stop dead. My teeth had only grazed gently over her nipple. Was I too rough? Is it my turn to spoil everything? But her back is arching, and she's pulling me in towards her.

It occurs to me that there is a very basic way to see if she likes what I have wanted to do for so long, and as I brace my body with my left arm, the fingers of my right hand curl between her legs. Her thighs are sticky, the slippery evidence of her pleasure seems to be everywhere. My cock, though largely ignored, is throbbing, aching, pulsing with every muffled sound and press of her hips. When I slide two fingers inside of her and she keens in pleasure, I know with an animal instinct what I need – what we both need.

My balance is a bit impeded, but I am able to work my way back up her body, fitting my hips snuggly between hers. I can feel the slick heat of her slit against my prick, and groan into her neck, "I love you, Katniss."

She stiffens beneath me, but I barely notice. I'm kissing her still, every inch of skin I can reach, as I position our bodies to slot together.

Her hand is pressing on my chest, as though she's trying to push me off. I register that something is not right, before I hear her say, "Stop! Wait, not yet."

I blink through the haze of my arousal, but pull up as I see that she is breathing hard, gasping breaths like a fish plucked from the water. "It's ok," I tell her, smoothing her hair back from her forehead as I do when she has a nightmare. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"I can't do this," she says, her voice a single miserable note of disappointment – disappointment in me? No, I cast the thought away, knowing how much she had enjoyed what we were doing. "I can't do this," she repeats.

There is a very small, tight, cruel part of me that is angry. It is dismissed before it can take hold, but I can't deny that it was there.

Rolling to the side, I bundle her back onto my chest. "It's ok. You don't have to do anything, Katniss."

She sniffs. I don't look down just in case, because she hates crying and she won't want me to see. "But you really wanted to."

"I didn't think I was the only one," I say through gritted teeth before I can stop myself.

This draws a chuckle, which is a relief. Her hand is playing over my cock, which has refused to deflate despite everything. She slowly strokes me, and I wonder if she knows how teasing those slow strokes are when I was moments from burying myself inside her. Even as we lie together catching our breaths and the demanding fires of lust start to ebb away, I can feel her thumb slide through the juices she left on my cock and a fresh stab of arousal makes me throb. "I just got scared. Sorry. I didn't know if I was ready yet."

To point out that there is no time left in which to be ready would be too cruel, for both of us. I push the idea of going any further from my mind. Instead I concentrate on the rhythmic squeeze of her hand around my prick, losing myself in sensation. "It doesn't matter," I say, and I'm glad that I'm not lying. It doesn't matter.

She pulls my hand between her legs, and I am proud and gratified again at how wet she is. We fall into our familiar rhythms – splintered only by the flexing of her hand when I brush the sensitive side of her nub, or by my fingers freezing in the moments when she works the head of my cock. I come first, which is hardly surprising, and am pleased that I can focus my full attention on her, sucking and nibbling her breasts as my fingers work her to climax, mewling my name.

When we burrow down beneath the covers, we are a sticky mess. Her arms wrap around me, and mine around her. She kisses my neck, and I can't think of anything in the whole of my life that has made me so happy. I wish we could freeze this moment. I said it on the roof, but there are so many moments today I want to freeze and live in for the rest of eternity. Katniss, resplendent and on fire, the pallid white of her gown disintegrating into the mockingjay feathers. Katniss calling out my name in pleasure, egging me on, wanting me. Katniss asleep and peaceful in my lap.

It's been a good day. A good last day.


End file.
